Flow Festival

Helsinki

In the shadows of two skyscraping cooling towers, Helsinki’s Flow Festival continued its establishment as a pure, inclusive, unforgettable example of what a music festival should stand for.

A 15 minute tram ride from the centre of the city, it’s flawlessly clean, the sound is crisp, and the setting – an iconic disused powerplant – is the kind of place you’d visit even is some of the world’s most important musicians weren’t there with you. Yes, you’ll have to take out a second mortgage to get tipsy and you can’t smoke a fag within a whisp of a stage –  but, honestly, that actually becomes part of the wholesome appeal.
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The main stage, a huge outdoor construct, is host to a wealth of unforgettable sets across the weekend: the Manic Street Preachers remain in era-best form, dipping into the 20-year-old masterpiece The Holy Bible with a stunning PCP as Nicky Wire sloganeers wildly from stage left. As they surge into If You Tolerate This…, he yelps “This ain’t not Britpop anthem – this is a song about working class emancipation!”

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The National close Saturday, and with Matt Berninger juxtaposing slurring mutters and raw, emancipated screams along with with the potency of brass seeping through the likes of a gorgeous England, they wholly justify their rise from indie oddities to headline heroes. On Sunday, Janelle Monáe proves herself to be the real deal, gyrating and moonwalking her hypersoul brilliance across every inch of the stage and, in the process, establishing herself in the tradition of great American entertainers. Jessie Ware’s appearance finds her on typically loveable, charming form. She delivers arena-sized balladry from her forthcoming record with aplomb, picking out doting individuals from the crowd, all of whom gush in reciprocation. Even the brutally overplayed Wildest Moments feels like a warming, familiar treat.

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With the sun howling down for the duration of the weekend (the famous Helsinki perma-sunshine ceased a month or so ago, meaning picture-postcard sunsets come around 10pm each night), the two main tents become saunas of decadence. Pusha T is a clear highlight, ludicrously on-point, emanating charisma and turnt to dangerous levels. Numbers On The Board drops like a boot to the gut, delivered gleefully by a future superstar.

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They’ve got a film about them and everyone knows about that album and that backstory, but still; Slint remain one of the most unlikely stories in modern rock music. Today, as on any other day since their freak reformation, they are unsuspecting gods. A peculiar relic with 20 years of chronology and immeasurable influence, they should have thousands of miles on the clock; playing live should be a bore, a chore. Slint – a bunch of men approaching middle age who haven’t recorded a new song for longer than Nirvana – still feel indecipherable, fresh, as if they’re feeling their way around the stage. Members bleed and drip from the stage, sounds loop and congeal, retaining and extending elastic power; an exercise in profound restraint. It’s fully 20 minutes before volume is used as a weapon. They close with the seasick riff of Good Morning Captain, then they depart. The entire heady, transformative set feels pregnant with history, sadness, tension, meaning, frustration and a warped realisation of a dormant potential. They could have been one of the great bands. Emotionally exhausting, gutterally moving, viscerally rewarding. Slint.

There’s no such thing as a standard Action Bronson show, and in this case he marks his set by maneuvering his way out of the tent, nicking an €8 beer and settling on a bench where he proceeds to accept kisses from eager fans. Straight off the plane, How To Dress Well is forced to soundcheck in front of a huge crowd; lucky, then, that his tones are so angelic that we’re happy to sit and bask in them as he emits choral “1 2, 1,2”s.

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The larger tent also hosts Bill Callahan, who matches inexplicably boyish looks with the kind of sonorous murmur that’ll leave you feeling the good type of hollow, as well as an energetic but ultimately sobering, puddle-shallow set from Skrillex. It includes a Lion King-themed segment which entertains many, but also sends a portion of the crowd hurtling from the tent blowing Simba-shaped chunks. Mission accomplished.

The 360° stage is a unique treat; as crowd becomes one with the band, Neneh Cherry swoops and swoons through a sublime showing of new material, while standing inches from the always-slightly-smiling Matt Mondaline as the sun harangues the back of our necks and Real Estate sigh through the balmy weight of tracks from latest gem Atlas will remain with us forever

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As that sun drifts and settles behind the coolers, we set up camp in the bustle of the photo pit for the main event. Seldom have we witnessed such electricity emanating from a stage as when Big Boi and André 3000 bound into site. They entertain immeasurably, and they challenge too; they talk shit but remain eminently likeable. Their interplay remains one of the most important phenomena in the history of hip-hop, and as they, and we, celebrate the sheer cultural significance of OutKast, Flow comes to a singular, unrivalled, absolutely fucking perfect close.

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